


give us this day our daily bread

by cocchamscrew, thelostcolony



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alfred is a bastard. what can we say, And Cursing Because... Gordon Ramsay, Canon compliant...ish, Cooking Lessons, Crack Treated Seriously, Excessive Britishisms, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocchamscrew/pseuds/cocchamscrew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: What even is the point, Uhtred wonders, of having offered his sword to Alfred if Alfred was going to make a mockery of him this way? What is the point of instructing Uhtred to teach Leofric—who, despite Uhtred’s teasing, is clearly a warrior—about the Danes if Uhtred himself is not going to be valued for his information? Why send him to “apprentice” under someone whose skills are, by all means, useless to the warrior that Uhtred seeks to be?Cooking, after all, is hardly needed when one is going to battle.Or: yes, this is exactly what it looks like. It's a Gordon Ramsay au.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the trainwreck brought to you by chefs ro and amy, we hope you enjoy the meal, please leave us a review to tell us how you liked the lamb sauce, this is the crossover no one knew they needed or wanted and, in fact, many do not need nor want, but it is here now ;)))  
> much love,  
> -ro
> 
> Some citations are in order because we're extra and we looked everything up:
> 
> The term 'chef' wasn't officially invented until the 19th century (specifically circa 1842) from the French meaning, "head cook." Not calling Chef Ramsay Chef Ramsay is a crime that we would not commit, so Gordon Ramsay has conveniently invented the term ten centuries early.
> 
> [The term briw basically refers to a cauldron used specifically for cooking.](https://oakden.co.uk/food-in-the-anglo-saxon-period/)
> 
> [The many Ramsays, and the meaning of the name.](https://www.houseofnames.com/ramsay-family-crest)

If Lord Leofric Ramsay were to describe one of the many unfortunate things of his life (his life itself notwithstanding), it would be his brotherhood to one Lord Gordon Ramsay.

If the reader is able to suspend their disbelief for a moment, they will be able to picture this: a cozy farmstead not a small ways away from where the heart of Wessex, that being Winchester, now stood, wherein a farmer and his wife settle down after marriage. The farmer, whose name is unimportant but for referral purposes we shall call Gordon the Elder, owned about two acres of land that would in time be split and devoted to his two sons, regardless of his firstborn daughter, as this is the ninth century.

Now the surname Ramsay originates from a place named _Ramsey_ , which is a word derived from the Old English words “hramsa” and “eg”, which mean “wild garlic” and “island”; this is, perhaps, fortuitous of the profession that would come to develop for those who still have the surname. That said, the spelling of Ramsay that we know of was first found recorded in Huntington, in a very old charter that was overseen by two equally long, boringly named men circa 1153-1156 AD.

All of this is to say that, of course, there is any surplus of Ramsays who originated from any surplus of islands where garlic is grown, and that these Ramsays, as per regional information on the surname, could come from any part of Anglo-Saxon England pre-union, and that this specific _Ramsay_ does not necessarily refer to the same Gordon Ramsay we know of to date, except for the fact that I, the author, want the reader to know that it is, in fact, referring to that very same Gordon Ramsay.

Continuing on, whilst still holding one’s suspension of disbelief: Gordon the Elder would only divide the land upon his sons when his death found him while they were in their early twenties, and their mother would die shortly thereafter of what physicians of the time would herald “heartbreak” but really was a heart attack brought on by too much protein in her diet. Freed from a farmstead life that would have been insisted upon under Gordon the Elder’s watchful eye, Leofric and Gordon the Younger (from here on out referred to as simply “Ramsay”) set out on two different paths: one to become a warrior and the other to… well, become a professional cook. Both of these occupations, conveniently enough, were able to be achieved in Winchester, Wessex, and it was there that the two brothers happened to find themselves both in the service of King Aethelred, brother to the future Alfred the Great.

Leofric rarely spent time in his elder brother’s shadow; in fact, he did the opposite. His brother labored away in the palace kitchens, honing his trade by attempting to find a food suitable for King Alfred to eat; contrarily, Leofric spent his time on the battlefield with shield and sword. When they did come into contact with one another, it was for a few, fleeting moments when Ramsay was not in the palace kitchens on standby, and Leofric was not on campaign.

And yet, Gordon Ramsay still managed to be the rock in Leofric Ramsay’s boot.

“No,” Ramsay says, not even bothering to turn away from the skillet. “Whatever it is, whyever you’re skulking around my kitchens, Leofric, the answer is no.”

“I bring word from the King,” Leofric says, leaning against the doorframe and shamelessly stealing an apple from the nearby bowl. “He wants meat.”

“He can have my turd.”

“He could have your head.”

“He should take it, if it would please him.”

“Aw now,” Leofric takes a bite out of the apple. “Don’t be like that. S’not all bad, cookin’ for the King of Wessex.”

“It was much easier when I could simply call him the arseling of Wessex,” Ramsay snaps, and then shoves a metal panhandle out of the path of a servant girl. “Watch where you’re walking, Christ Almighty! This is a kitchen, not a henhouse!”

“I thought you only called me arseling,” Leofric says.

“Only my least favorite people - YOU _DONKEY_ , THAT’S BURNING!” A flurry of action as Ramsay leaps halfway across the kitchen to save whatever game is simmering over the other flames being managed in the kitchen. “You absolute numpty, you’ve BURNT IT, you’re cooking in a burnt PAN - GET OUT! _GET OUT!”_

Leofric doesn’t even flinch as one of Ramsay’s latest apprentices turns tail and flees.

“Was that really necessary?”

Ramsay rubs his forehead. “Gotta give you recruits somehow, Leofric, your personality isn’t doing it. Why’d he have you come to tell me he wants meat anyway, ‘stead of some servant?”

“He wants me to enforce it, if necessary.” Leofric takes another bite of his apple.

Ramsay scowls. “Well he’ll be disappointed. More gruel it is. And when I find out who the _fuck_ let yesterday’s go out like that, I’m going to—” 

“You need a new apprentice, ay?” Leofric says, throwing his apple core into the composter for the pigs.

“Not one that Alfred offers.” Ramsay stirs whatever’s stewing in a nearby briw.

“Well, had an arseling in town today.”

“S’that so.”

“Alfred wants him _tempered_.”

“And he thinks I’m willing to do it, does he? Hey you! YOU! STOP THAT!”

Leofric ignores Ramsay and the fire he’s literally putting out. “It might interest you to know that he’s a Dane.”

Ramsay pauses, towel still hovering over the too-high flame.

Leofric smirks a little. “Think about it,” he says. “I’ll go tell the King your disappointing news!”

“Try to keep your head while you’re at it! HEY, YOU! THAT’S _RAW!”_

Leofric chuckles to himself as he walks away, able to hear the controlled chaos of the kitchen from another hallway over. Ramsay's penchant for noise and rebuke has always impressed Leofric; Leofric himself is more of a show rather than a tell. Why bother screaming when he can simply bash their skulls in? Simpler, in his opinion, and much less energy to boot.

When he gets close enough to the witan hall to overhear the conversation going on within, it’s clear that he’s interrupting a heated debate.

“I am to _what?_ Lord—” 

“Uhtred, I will not rescind my order,” Alfred says. He’s entirely too calm compared to Uhtred’s red-hot anger. “You are to apprentice under Lords Ramsay and Leofric both in order to teach Leofric about the ways of the Danes.”

“And apprenticing in a _kitchen_ , Lord?”

Alfred folds his hands and begins to pace. “I am of the opinion that all men should have a skillset,” he says. “Not just for them to live upon, but for trade, artisan trade, to thrive. I have been reflecting on the merits of trade as the poor do—less in silver and more in what they can offer. For example, if I give you two goats, Uhtred, I expect milk for the coming winter months until I can afford new.”

Uhtred reins in his temper as well as he’s able. “And this has to do with me _how,_ Lord?” 

“If I can influence a heathen to this plan, then perhaps I can influence the pious, too. They will see your work as attempting to better yourself, and your… experience trade… will, overall, be benefitting Wessex, if all goes well. It is not so much as to establish bartering as it is to encourage artisan growth, the abilities of many to infuse the community."

“And I am a trial run, to see if it is worth wasting the time of those more important?” Uhtred doesn’t bother to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

“Yes,” Alfred says simply, regarding him. “Consider this as proving part of your loyalty to Wessex, Uhtred. Your ability to obey your king.”  
  
Uhtred surges forward. “Lord, I have already proven my loyalty! I gave you victory on the hill!” 

“And now, you will give me your time,” Alfred says, completely unstirred. Uhtred bites the inside of his lip so hard that he tastes blood.

“Lord,” he concedes, breath rattling in his chest for his anger, and then sweeps out. 

He’ll talk to Father Beocca. There’s absolutely no reason for him to learn how to do something as foolish as cooking when he seeks to be a warrior, seeks the glory of battle, seeks to be called— 

“Arseling!”

Not that.

Uhtred stops. The anger leaks out in the cracks of his expression, and Uhtred takes a deep breath before he turns.

“Farmer,” he greets.

“Mm,” Leofric says, measuring him. “Don’t know what Alfred sees in you, to be honest.”

Uhtred smiles, just because he knows it will piss Leofric off. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“I do not need someone like Alfred to give me his approval. I don't want nor need him to see something in me.”

Leofric smiles thinly. “Yeah, he’ll like you. C’mon, arseling, I’m to escort you to the kitchens.”

What even is the point, Uhtred wonders, of having offered his sword to Alfred if Alfred was going to make a mockery of him this way? What is the point of instructing Uhtred to teach Leofric—who, despite Uhtred’s teasing, is clearly a warrior—about the Danes if Uhtred himself is not going to be valued for his information? Why send him to “apprentice” under someone whose skills are, by all means, useless to the warrior that Uhtred seeks to be? 

The kitchen is a good way away from the witan hall, so Uhtred has plenty of time to stew in his thoughts. In spite of this, the clamor from the kitchen even from a hallway away is so great that it immediately sets Uhtred's teeth on edge. A voice rises over the ruckus, vexed and barking. As they get closer, the words become clearer.

“...you shit eating dog! You could KILL someone with that!”

“Yes Chef!”

“AND YOU! You absolute dickface, who do you think YOU are to give orders in my kitchen? ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

“But I—”

“BUT NOTHING! OUT! GET OUT! GIVE ME YOUR APRON AND GET OUT!”

From the kitchen bursts forth a young man, maybe a little older than Uhtred himself, rushing past them. Moisture glistens on his cheeks that, if Uhtred were to guess, isn’t solely due to sweat.

Leofric must sniff something in the air, like a hound, for he turns on Uhtred with a gleam in his eye. “Nervous, ay?”

Uhtred inclines his chin, and doesn’t reply. 

They round the corner and come to an open entryway. Inside, the kitchen is a flurry of activity; servants rush to and fro carrying different ingredients, pots, pans, and kitchen supplies. Open flames are scattered around the work area, all with their own cooks monitoring them. The work tables themselves line each wall all the way to the corners, and several are pushed together in the center of the room. Each and every surface is covered in a variety of utensils and ingredients, and all the people in the kitchen wear ratty aprons.

Leofric grins broadly, and knocks on the doorframe. “Gordon! Got your most recent victim here.”

One of the cooks straightens, shoulders shifting, but he otherwise doesn’t acknowledge Leofric. Instead, he focuses on the dish in front of him, sprinkling spice into the bowl and stirring the briw that sits next to him. Leofric waits, leaning against the doorframe, until the man turns.

He’s about Leofric’s age, maybe slightly older. His face is creased from what Uhtred deduces has been years of frowning, though he’s relatively unscarred compared to Leofric. He has ashy blonde hair, a large nose, blue eyes, and altogether looks like he could beat Uhtred to a crisp with very little effort (which, in Uhtred’s humble opinion, _is_ saying something.)

He’d make a good Dane, actually.

“Ay,” the man greets, wiping his hands on his apron and holding one out. Uhtred reaches forward to grasp his forearm. “Gordon Ramsay, call me Chef and not Lord, if you call me Lord I _will_ kick you out.”

Leofric beats Uhtred to it. “This is Uhtred Ragnarson, certified arseling and King Alfred’s personal project.”

Uhtred scowls. Ramsay nods his head and takes a few steps backwards, not retreating but owning his own space, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Yeah, Leofric told me a bit about you. First and foremost are the rules of the kitchen: my word is law, anything I say will be done, or I will throw you out. Second: the man in the corner is Jean-Phillipe, he’s my sous, he’s the best there is and if anything comes from him it’s like it’s coming from me.”

On the far left corner flame, Jean-Phillipe briefly raises a hand to identify himself, but otherwise doesn’t pay them any mind.

“Third: this is Hell’s Kitchen, it will be treated with respect. Anything you break will be paid for by you, any food you prepare will be the best you can make, no exceptions. And fourth: don’t be a fucking dickhead, alright? Respect me and I’ll respect you, but fuck around and it’ll be your head on Alfred’s dinner plate. Got it?”

Uhtred lifts his chin.

Ramsay takes a step closer. “No. This is where you say “yes, Chef,” and if you don’t, I kick your shitting arse. Got it?” Ramsay’s stare is flinty.

Uhtred lashes his wildly bucking temper. “Yes, Chef,” he grits. 

Ramsay’s stormy expression clears like it was never there. “Not gonna ask what a chef even is, then, ay? Good thing I don’t care about your education.”

“He made it up,” Leofric says.

Ramsay rolls his eyes. “So much for not caring—it’s the name for a professional cook, and since I’m the only professional in the whole goddamn of England, only I’m worthy of the title.”

“And once the arseling’s finished?” Leofric asks, amused. “With the apprenticing, I mean.”

“IF he finishes,” Ramsay says, “then I suppose he’ll be a chef as well. For now he’s nothing more than a chefling.”

“A _chefling!”_ Leofric cackles, and Uhtred’s anger simmers in his throat like bile, accompanied by something too close to embarrassment for his own comfort. “Have fun with that, arseling, really—but this farmer’s off to do a warrior’s work, _unlike_ some.”

Uhtred scowls again.

“Get outta my fucking kitchen, Leofric,” Ramsay says, and Leofric, still gleefully laughing, goes. Uhtred decidedly does _not_ feel self conscious; he is a warrior. There is no reason for him to feel uncomfortable in a place like a kitchen.

Not that Ramsay—Lord, Chef, _whatever_ —would care about that.

"The most important meal you need to learn to make is a good stew," Ramsay begins brusquely, cracking his knuckles. "For if you're short on time and you've got guests coming 'round, or if you're camped out in a field somewhere. That's more likely with you, I reckon." 

Uhtred watches him tie a makeshift apron around his waist, dimly wondering if that had been an insult. However, he does not get to wonder for very long. 

"Stop gaping at me like a fish, what are you waiting for?" Ramsay shouts, snapping Uhtred out of his reverie. "Get your fucking arse over here, I'd like this stew to be made before the sun sets today!" 

Uhtred huffs but does as he is told, muttering _"yes, Chef,”_ though he narrows his eyes when Ramsay adds, "Staring at me like a fucking _fish_. I prefer to cook the bastards." 

Privately, Uhtred marvels that no one has taken a sword to the man, though in the end he decides any effort to do so would be pointless. Ramsay would have his assailant in tears before a finger was even lifted, and Uhtred's thoughts drift back to the weeping man from earlier. 

Something inside him shudders at the thought of it, of running away, and promises himself that if Alfred insists he suffer this way under one year of service, then he’ll be the best fucking _chef_ Wessex has ever seen… if only to prove Ramsay wrong. He does not take to the title of chefling, though Ramsay appears to be enjoying its use. 

"Are you half-asleep or what?" Ramsay snaps. "Wake up and get me that pot for fuck's sake! This is the third time I've asked you, chefling!" 

Uhtred jumps out of his skin and in doing so, hits his head on the underside of a shelf. Jean-Phillipe snorts and Uhtred scowls. Ruefully rubbing his scalp, he moves off to find the pot, dimly hearing Ramsay calling him a "fucking muppet.” Uhtred makes a mental note to ask Leofric what that means later as he hands Ramsay the pot. 

“Well what are you standing ‘round for?” Ramsay demands. “Christ, it’s like you’ve never been in a kitchen before! You a fucking idiot or what?!"

Uhtred's temper, balanced on a knife's edge, finally tilts. 

"Because I haven't!" Uhtred explodes. "Apart from skinning game on the road and mixing mushroom ale, I’ve never worked with any of this! So you’ll have to find a _servant_ to fetch all your ingredients for you, and to shriek at when they displease you!"

Uhtred glares, hands clenched into fists at his belt. Ramsay, inexplicably, seems calmer. “Why would Alfred send you down to the kitchens apprenticing, then?”

“Because he lives to make my life hell, Lord! I’m a warrior, not a cook! The only thing I’m truly capable of using in this room is the knife! I am Earl Ragnar's son, rightful Ealdorman of Bebbanburg, I have no use for kitchenry! It is Alfred who insists on making a fool of me!"

Ramsay stares.

Then he chuckles.

“Fair enough,” he says, easy like he hadn’t been roaring at Uhtred five minutes before. “Alfred is some such bastard. Right, from the top, then. And it’s chef, not lord.”

Uhtred takes a deep breath, measuring. Ramsay looks back at him, calm and suddenly patient. In a way, Uhtred is reminded of Beocca.

The thought settles him. “Chef,” he says.

Ramsay nods. “So what we have here is a briw. It’s a sedentary form of the travel pot, and damn hard to burn the contents in—much harder than a travel pot, taking your experience. See how thick the bottom is? No travel pot’s shaped that way. The flame is kept low, at a simmer—that’s a low boil. You know what boiling water looks like?”

Uhtred smiles, rueful. “I’m inexperienced, not an idiot.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Uhtred's lips twist to hide his smile. “Thank you.”

Ramsay huffs, but it sounds almost like a laugh. “Just pay attention, chefling. I don’t explain things twice.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhtred takes a deep breath. Losing his temper would be counterproductive: the peace between them has only been tentatively established. To lose it in such a short time would be a defeat that Uhtred doesn’t want to bear.
> 
> Or: they're off to a rocky start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone chefs amy and ro BACK AT IT AGAIN with the ramsay content! please sit back enjoy the meal and please tell us how you liked the lamb sauce !!  
> much love,  
> -ro

Having established the relation between Leofric and Ramsay, we now come to the point of the eldest daughter, Eadgyth.

Eadgyth did not inherit any land upon Gordon the Elder’s death (this being the ninth century), but she _did_ travel with both brothers to Winchester, Wessex. In the short of it, while both brothers began apprenticing in their separate fields, Eadgyth herself was appointed a position as a serving girl and caught the eye of the king’s brother, Alfred, who was already betrothed to a beautiful young woman from Mercia but who didn’t seem to pique his interest. 

The affair barely lasted six months, but in that time, Eadgyth had conceived Alfred’s soon-to-be bastard. Before word could get out and rumor could begin, Alfred himself sent Eadgyth away to the nunnery one town over, too practical to bother arguing for her presence at his side. It was compassion that drew him more than practicality in the placement of Eadgyth, however; she was close enough that both Leofric and Ramsay were able to visit her and her newborn, Osferth, named discreetly after Alfred’s mother. 

That was some eight odd years ago, and though Eadgyth had been permitted to raise Osferth within the confines of the nunnery, Leofric and Ramsay both take it upon themselves to expose Osferth to as much of the world as they possibly can (granted that his identity, of course, remains hidden.) 

As for Uhtred, the irony of his situation is not lost on him as he makes his way down to the kitchens. 

Alfred’s motivations, however he might claim them, have very little to do with improving artisan growth or whatever shite he spat yesterday and more to do, Uhtred is sure, with ensuring that Uhtred himself bends to Alfred’s will when the time comes. It is to wear him down, to force him to obey Alfred’s authority and those that Alfred appoints; to make him “loyal to Wessex,” whatever that entails. 

Actually, Uhtred knows what that entails: it entails him making a fool out of himself in the kitchen, just so Alfred’s megalomaniac tendencies are assuaged. And Ramsay, rather than Leofric, has the leeway with which to enforce his rule: the kitchen is unsupervised and not Uhtred’s area of expertise—whereas with Leofric, in spite of his inexperience, he could at least put up something of a fight if need be. It makes sense, in the grand scheme of it, for Alfred to have assigned him to a slave driver like Ramsay. 

Of course, these thoughts are all well and good when one is musing on them and has no evidence to suggest otherwise—hence why, upon his entry into the kitchen that morning, Uhtred must reshape his perception of Ramsay as he gently coaxes his eight year old nephew to stir the briw the correct way.

“Good,” Ramsay praises, and ruffles Osferth’s hair. “Very good, Osferth, nicely done, love.”

Uhtred clears his throat. When Ramsay turns around, any hint of softness has left his expression.

“Ah, chefling. To the briw closest to Osferth. Gotta keep an eye on him while I’m teaching you.”

Uhtred takes a deep breath. Losing his temper would be counterproductive: the peace between them has only been tentatively established. To lose it in such a short time would be a defeat that Uhtred doesn’t want to bear.

Perhaps it’s because Osferth has been exposed to the kitchen before, or perhaps it is simply that Osferth has more natural talent at cooking having come from the Ramsay line: nevertheless, it’s no less frustrating for Uhtred that as Uhtred struggles to become a chef, Osferth _excels_ at it.

“Chefling! That’s the third bloody time you’ve burnt yourself! I’ve never, ever, _ever_ met someone I believe in as little as you!”

“Thank you,” Uhtred says, and then burns his elbow against the side of the nearby briw.

“Fucking _dammit_ you arsefaced ninny, _watch your limbs!_ Couldn’t you be more like Osferth here?!”

Osferth, completely unbothered by his uncle’s frankly illegal volume, simply turns to Uhtred with smiling eyes and a grim set to his mouth. “Sorry, Lord,” he says.

“He’s no lord, he’s a chefling!” Ramsay says, considerably nicer because he’s speaking to his nephew. Uhtred, stupidly, feels a stab of jealousy. “And he’s more than burnt himself today—come away from there! You’ll be chopping vegetables. If you can’t so much as avoid burning yourself at the briw then you’ll start smaller.”

The embarrassment that strikes is as unexpected as it is hated, and Uhtred takes a deep breath and reminds himself of the weeping man from yesterday. He’s a warrior. He’s been through more than enough already than to be made afraid of something like a common kitchen cook. 

“I work better with the blade anyway,” Uhtred says, purposefully lighthearted and wry, and Ramsay’s scowl could stretch for leagues.

Osferth’s, though, makes it almost worth it.

Attempting to keep up the impression that he does not mind chopping vegetables soon grows difficult for Uhtred. While he manages to succeed in not cutting off his fingers, there is not much else he succeeds at. 

Watching Ramsay praising his young nephew for the exact thing Uhtred failed at infuriates him more than he cares to admit. What rankles him more is Ramsay’s reaction to his own efforts.

“What do you call this?” Ramsay asks, scooping up some of the vegetables.

“Carrots,” Uhtred mutters sullenly. 

“Carrots _what?"  
_

“Carrots, Chef,” he says, a little louder this time. 

Ramsay is not impressed. “You told me you were good with a blade, chefling,” he says. “These look like they were chopped by the blind man Jesus never got around to fucking healing!” He examines the rest of the vegetables and sighs. “Can you tell me what the problem with these are?”

Uhtred looks incredulously first at the carrots, then back to Ramsay. He cannot, for the life of him, understand where he went wrong. Though his mouth is open, no sound comes out, and Ramsay rolls his eyes.

“Osferth!” he calls, beckoning the little boy over. “I want you to look at these for me, alright? Can you tell me what’s wrong with the way this fish-faced idiot’s chopped them?”

At this point, Uhtred’s blood is boiling. 

Osferth looks at the carrots for a moment, before he looks back at his uncle. “They’re nowhere near fine enough,” he answers. “It would take longer to properly cook these than the briw itself.”

Ramsay smiles, something Uhtred has never seen him do before. “Precisely,” he says. “You can get back to your own briw now, sweetheart.”

As soon as Osferth is paying more attention to the briw than them, Uhtred begins to protest. “How fine do you want these to be, Chef?” he snaps. “If I cut these any thinner I’ll end up cutting _myself!_ ” But Ramsay’s arms are folded - his arguments are futile.

“Get back to work, chefling.”

After a time, Ramsay drifts away to other workstations to check up on his other apprentices, telling Osferth to “mind the chefling, would you?” before he goes. Uhtred scowls at his retreating back, not that Ramsay can see it, but carefully schools his expression when he turns back to Osferth. No use in scorning the child for being good at something. He’s not quite that immature, no matter what Brida or Father Beocca claim.

“So,” he says, “you’ve been doing this for long?”

Osferth nods, sprinkling in salt and stirring. “Since I could walk, basically,” he says, and smiles up at Uhtred. He’s missing a front tooth, which makes his smile all the more charming. “My mother’s stuck in the nunnery—not that I’m ever s’posed to say _stuck_ , since it’s the Lord’s house an’ all. But I get to come out with Uncle Gordon an’ Uncle Leofric. I’m right bad at sword fighting, but Uncle Gordon says I could be a real good cook one day, if I keep at it.”

“Your mother’s in a nunnery and allowed to raise you?”  
  
“Well, yes. That’s b’cause of—well.” Osferth lowers his voice. “My father, he’s the king’s brother, ‘cept I’m not s’posed to tell anyone that.”

“Why tell me?”  
  
“‘Cause you’re nice,” Osferth says plainly. “Plus, Uncle Gordon likes you, so tha’s good enough reason as any.”

“Your Uncle Gordon _hates_ me,” Uhtred says dryly.

Osferth shakes his head. “Nuh uh. If he hated you, he’d’ve kicked you out already.”

“So I suppose he calls all his favorites arse-faced ninnies, then?”

Osferth giggles. “Only his favorites. Plus he calls you chefling. He calls _me_ bastling, and I’m his most favorite nephew.”

“You’re his only nephew, aren’t you?”

“I’m still right!”  
  
Uhtred smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Ay chefling! Stop smiling and start chopping, things are hardly going to cook if you don’t actually get around to cutting them! Christ,” Ramsay mutters from across the room.

“Yes, Chef,” Uhtred says, but he winks at Osferth for good measure, and Osferth’s laugh is certainly gratifying in its own right. 

That is, until he puts his forearm down directly onto the hot briw.

_“AND STOP BURNING YOURSELF!”_

______

Father Beocca is only just sitting down to begin writing when his door is all but kicked down. Upon seeing a furious Uhtred standing in the doorway, he sighs - the life of St Cuthbert will have to be chronicled another day.

Uhtred appears to be fighting the urge to break something. His hands are balled into fists and his breathing is erratic. "What's the matter?" Beocca asks, growing concerned. 

“ _Ramsay,_ ” Uhtred growls, and Beocca’s concern immediately dissipates.

“Ah,” the priest says. “You’d better come and take a seat. What’s happened now?” 

He has to fight the amusement threatening to show itself on his face, though it is increasingly difficult every time he meets Uhtred’s eye. The young man scrapes a chair across the ground and sinks into it.

“Surely, _surely_ an eight-year-old boy cannot be a better cook than me.”

Beocca has to look down to hide his smile. He has no idea what Uhtred is talking about, but he has a feeling that this will not be the last he hears of this boy, nor of Ramsay. 

"Would you care to explain?”

Uhtred rests his elbows on the table and hisses, lifting them. His sleeves fall from his wrists, and Beocca abruptly gets an eyeful of the smattering of burns all over Uhtred’s arms. “Good Lord, you look like you’ve seen battle, Uhtred!”

Uhtred scowls. “If you have honey, I’ll take that,” he says, and Beocca nods and goes to his cabinet. “It’ll take the sting out at least.”

“Hmm,” Beocca says, but hands over the jar of honey without much fuss.

“He acts as though I should know all this,” Uhtred says, dabbing honey on each of his various burns. Some are merely reddened patches; others have blistered, close to popping. “And the eight year old knows more than me.”

“This eight year old’s name?”

“Osferth. Far as I can tell, he’s Ramsay’s nephew.”

Beocca’s face clears a little. “Ah, yes. I’ve seen the boy. Alfred’s bastard, if the rumors are to be believed.”

Uhtred pauses, honey covered fingers inches from his left elbow. “Well, considering he told me himself, I’d confirm them for you if I didn’t think you already knew.”

Beocca tisks at him, but doesn’t waste the energy in saying anything about it further. Instead, he turns his attention to Uhtred’s honey-smeared arms. “Uhtred, can you please explain to me why exactly you’re wasting my honey?”  
  
“Soothes burns, cleans wounds. Things like that.”

Beocca watches critically. “Interesting. And what exactly did Lord Ramsay have you doing today, then?”

“Chopping vegetables for his nephew and burning myself on the briw.”

Beocca’s lips twist like maybe he wants to smile. To his credit, he just claps a hand on Uhtred’s shoulder. “Good thing that this evening will be spent with Leofric learning the proper way to fight,” he says.

Uhtred groans.

  
______

“Arseling!” Leofric greets. “Thought you wouldn’t show.”

“Figured you can’t be any worse than your brother,” Uhtred says, unsheathing his sword.

“Ay! No swords yet, arseling. No matter how much I want to kill you, Alfred wants you alive. Nah, we start with sticks.” Leofric tosses one at Uhtred, careless about whether or not he’s able to catch it.

Uhtred’s reflexes, useless to him in the kitchen, save him now. “Sticks,” he repeats.

“Yeah, arseling, I’m speakin’ English, aren’t I? Sticks. At the ready now.”

Then, without preamble or announcement, Leofric launches himself at Uhtred.

Uhtred scrambles to parry; the strength behind Leofric’s strike nearly knocks him off balance. The two circle each other, Leofric leading and Uhtred following. Uhtred tries to attack from the right; Leofric parries and ripostes, whacking Uhtred smack in the ribs. It stings; the sticks do a good job of at least reminding their wielders where they need improvement. 

Leofric doesn’t go easy. He forces Uhtred to use the environment around him, barely staying in one place himself. Holes pepper the field; Uhtred stumbles more than once and Leofric takes the advantage it offers, whacking Uhtred every single time his guard falters (and many times when it doesn’t.) 

It’s well past sunset by the time Leofric calls for a halt. “That’s enough for today,” he says, completely unbothered as Uhtred pants and wipes at his bloody forehead from where Leofric’s stick caught him at a wrong angle. “Get that seen to, and we’ll continue on tomorrow.”

Uhtred’s stomach sinks.

Leofric claps him on the shoulder and grins like a wolf. “Come on then! I think I deserve a pint. You can pay for it.”

They make their way to the nearest tavern, Leofric in higher spirits and certainly with less aches than Uhtred. It’s with far more care than someone his age should have that Uhtred eases himself down onto the bench and drapes himself over his pint.

“Aw come now, it wasn’t that bad, arseling,” Leofric says. “Don’t be such a shite about it.”

Uhtred raises an eyebrow. “You’re not as creative with the insults as your brother.”

“My brother can talk enough for the both of us,” Leofric chuckles, taking a swig. “I always said that Gordon was a talker an’ I was a fighter. For all his talk, he can take you down, no mistake—but he’d rather shout at you than fight you. Me, I look forward to bashin’ heads in. Yours in particular.” 

“And, what, doing it with a stick isn’t possible?”

“Oh no, it is. Just not as satisfying as doin’ it with my sword.”

Briefly, the two grin at one another.

“I burnt myself probably seven times,” Uhtred reveals. “And your nephew was in charge of his own briw. Ra—er.”

“You don’t have to call ‘im _chef_ with me, arseling. He’s always been too much of a thorn in my boot to actually have me callin’ him that anyway.”

“...Ramsay, he had Osferth supervising _me_. Call me arseling, but I _am_ a grown man.”

Leofric _pffts_. “You’re barely outta boyhood, and right mischievous to boot,” Leofric dismisses, sipping his ale. “Gordon, he wants you to prove yourself before all else. You prove that you can be trusted ‘round the kitchen stuff, he’ll let you be. Osferth’s young, sure, but he knows to mind Gordon’s word, heed his warnings and instructions. You? I reckon you’d rather swallow a turd than actually listen to anyone.”

“Pretty sure I’d rather eat a turd than come nose to nose with Ramsay,” Uhtred says to his ale, and Leofric laughs again.

“Look here, arseling. My brother, he’s a simple man, yea? Sharp as a dagger, sure, but simple when it comes down to it. He’s a man of morals—hell, he’s probably got more morals than you, me, and the Holy Church combined. He may not seem it, but he wants to give you a chance.”

Uhtred tilts his pint and studies its contents. Leofric pats the table.

“Just something to think about,” Leofric says, and then pops a piece of silver on the table. Uhtred starts. 

“I thought I was paying?”

“What, are you complaining? See you tomorrow, arseling.”

And with that, Uhtred is left alone with a single piece of silver, the watery contents of his pint, seven burns, and his own confused thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't expect angst in your ramsay au did ya  
> again please leave us a comment on your thoughts and have a lovely day ! also feel free to comment anything you'd like to see in particular; amy and i have a loose plot that we're following but it's quite flexible and Does allow for shenanigans! have a good one <3
> 
> amy: [tumblr](https://osferth.tumblr.com/)  
> ro:[tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) [tiktok](https://www.tiktok.com/@thelostcolony)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pan is swung; Uhtred ducks; it clatters against the countertop, and Uhtred, though never a coward, knows when to retreat, and so he hustles himself through the entrance and far from the kitchen where he can still hear Ramsay roaring and the clatter of things being thrown, and he thinks that maybe Egbert crying wasn’t something to be ashamed of, after all.
> 
> Or: things seem to be going from bad to worse for the chefling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya guys <3 chefs amy and ro are back again with the third installment of ramsay losing his shit !! please let us know your thoughts and we hope you enjoy the lamb sauce :D  
> love, amy :)

With Leofric’s lecture fresh in his mind and still half pissed with ale from the night before, Uhtred makes his way to the palace kitchens and decides in transit to keep the peace in the kitchen as well as he’s able.

Having grown up with Earl Ragnar has hardly imbued Uhtred with a good understanding of patience; living the life of a Dane, on the whims of his passions, has turned him into a man who appreciates quick gratification. Well, in everything except for Bebbanburg. Uhtred will wait a thousand years, hinged on his love for Bebbanburg.

He tries to take some of that reserve of patience and apply it to Ramsay—and, by extension, the kitchen itself. Ravn used to say _destiny is everything,_ and if fate has decided that here is where he’ll be for a time, serving under Ramsay to learn to cook, then, well. Far be it from Uhtred’s ability to deny the spinners’ will. 

The only way to ensure the peace is kept is to find it within himself, and so Uhtred vows that he will no longer question why fate brought him into Ramsay’s service in the first place, and instead focus on the fact that he’s here at all. The Danes have a hunger for life, and Uhtred, though Saxon-born, is no different: this means living in the moment, whatever that moment might be.

“Chefling! What are you lingering at the door for, ay? Get in here!”

Uhtred sighs, briefly touches his Thor’s hammer for strength, and enters the organized chaos.

Osferth is absent, likely gone back to whatever monastery Alfred has confined him to, though this only seems to maximize the frenetic energy in the kitchen. Servants bustle, stand at briws, chop ingredients, and otherwise make themselves look busy; two haul in buckets of water to fill a basin in which dishes are being washed. There’s a short chain: dishes are received from the back entrance to the kitchen, the remains are scraped into their own pail for the pigs, and then passed into the dish basin. A washer sits and rinses with, to Uhtred’s surprise, a block of animal-fat based soap. The only soap Uhtred himself had ever seen was made with thyme oil by Earl Ragnar’s wife Sigrid.

“You’ll be helping Leanflaed today,” Ramsay says, and gestures Uhtred to a briw near the entrance. “Don’t get in her way, she’s twice the chefling you are, and don’t even think about escaping, ay? Keep an eye on him, Leanflaed.”

“Yes Chef,” Leanflaed says, and turns to look at him.

She’s pretty, in an unassuming way, the way most West Saxon girls are. She has flat lips, a wide nose, blue eyes, and mousy hair, which is braided behind her head and off her neck. Sweat coats her upper lip, forehead, and neck, but she has small ears and overall an attractive air.

“Stop gawking, start stirring,” she says, whipcord, and Uhtred jumps to comply, clumsy hands taking the stirrer from her. She turns her attention to whatever she’s frying in the pain beside her, briw and burner flame working in tandem, and Uhtred watches. They’re silent for a time, Leanflaed apparently content to let Uhtred stir and Uhtred content enough with the fact that this is so boring that Earl Ragnar would sooner tell Uhtred to learn to read than learn to cook, when she suddenly speaks.

“New chefling?” Her arms are toned, and move to the side, disregarding her frying pan and her briw, to chop at vegetables. “That’s never easy.”

Uhtred lifts his chin. “Not for a warrior, no.”

“For _anyone_ , not just fools,” she shoots back. “Though I daresay that you’ve made it harder than it needs to be with that attitude.” She chops the head off a carrot with enough force that Uhtred has little trouble imagining what she’d be like in battle, warrior or no. When he doesn’t respond, Leanflaed continues. “He paired you with me so that I could teach you.”

“To cook, no doubt.”

“To mind your mouth.”

Uhtred’s brows quirk. “And you have such experience, do you, woman? Your tongue is sharp.”

“Only to lower cheflings that deserve it.” She plops her sliced carrots into the briw. “Only to those that act no better than babes.”

The insult reminds him of Brida so strongly that he chuckles. “Thank you.”

“I’m Leanflaed.”

“Uhtred. Of Bebbanburg.”

“Well then I’m Leanflaed Of The Briw, for all that means to me.”

“I have accepted that I am to learn to cook,” Uhtred says, and puts a little more effort into stirring now that he can feel the contents inside shift. “But I will not become Alfred’s plaything and forget who I am, and what I am owed.”

Leanflaed huffs through her nose. “That’s all well and good, so long as you don’t burn the food. Look, chefmate—you seem a good sort, and like someone I could well get along with on a good day. But you’ve not got a lick of sense, and even less survival instincts to boot, and you’re hardly well-managed enough to boil water, much less actually have your own briw in the kitchen.”

“Which is why he put me with you, I presume, so you can manage me better.”

“It’s not about being managed by others,” Leanflaed says, frustration only now leaking into her tone. “It’s about managing yourself well enough that others trust you. I’m not managed by Chef Ramsay when I’m over on my briw, I’m managed by myself. It’s up to me to cook something acceptable, to not burn myself. Chef Ramsay is only there to oversee everything; he doesn’t have the time to teach us all individually, so he has us learn from our mistakes. You’re stirring too fast.”

It takes a second for her words to register. “Ah,” Uhtred says, and lets go of the stirring stick.

“No, keep stirring,” Leanflaed says. “But slower. If you stir too fast, nothing will actually cook through properly.”

They work in tandem: Uhtred begins to hone his ability to chop and dice ingredients as Leanflaed narrates what she’s doing. Hours pass this way, and Uhtred grabs the leather strip he uses to fasten his hair and ties it all the way up so that the back of his neck is exposed. The kitchen is hotter than Alfred’s so-feared hell.

The chat is nice, too: Leanflaed is the first person in Winchester who seems to care less for religion and more for the merries in life, and that makes her good company. They talk of the past Christmas celebration, not long left, and of the Yule that Uhtred did not celebrate on account of Kjartan’s attack; they steer towards less serious topics, like Alfred’s preference in servant girls, and when that tires Uhtred mentions the young man who’d fled, crying, on the first day he arrived in the kitchen.

“Ah, Egbert,” Leanflaed says as she adjusts the flame under her pan, stoking it with more wood. “Poor sod. He was the chefling right before you, actually, ‘til he got on Ramsay’s bad side.”

“What did he do?” Uhtred asks, stirring.

“Apart from almost burning the whole kitchen down, nothing.” Uhtred’s expression must speak for him, because Leanflaed rolls her eyes. “I wish I were being dramatic, of course. But he’d stoked his flame too high and left it loose, and it was near enough to the back door that the breeze stoked it. The roof is made from thatch, you know.”

“I’m… surprised that the kitchen staff let it happen.”

“Well, I didn’t say that Egbert was wholly incompetent—he was only a fool when it suited him. Like Aethelwold, the King’s nephew.”

“Yes, we’ve met.”

“Then you know of his unfortunate predicament.”

“Feeling he has been usurped?”

“No, idiocy.”

The conversation flows from Aethelwold back to kitchen-matters, and as Leanflaed explains how she’s frying the chicken, what it should look like on the outside and how to cut it to see that it’s cooked through so that the innards are white instead of pink, Ramsay drifts over.

It’s been relatively peaceful in the kitchen; in the corner with Leanflaed, closest to the open entrance, Uhtred’s felt less stuffy than he did with Osferth, and far more respected. The shouting has also been at a minimum today—likely due to it being a day of the week, when prayers are staggered, Leanflaed says. Sundays, and other holy days, are much busier.

Still, Ramsay drifts over and Leanflaed doesn’t react, instead finishing her explanation and sprinkling some sort of herb over the chicken. “Chef,” she greets.

“Yes, hello,” Ramsay says politely. His hands are folded behind his back, and he doesn’t so much loom as peer. “What are we making, then?”

“Roast chicken,” Leanflaed says. “With cloves.”

“Interesting choice. Why not saffron?”

“Cloves help with digestion, Chef.”

Ramsay nods. “Very well done, Leanflaed. Cleverly thought, creative. And I suppose you’ve used the stew to embolden taste?”

“I did add a bit of pepper to hopefully give it more. I haven’t used any meat. I thought maybe if the stew lacked the meat sauce and I supplemented beef with chicken, it wouldn’t give King Alfred such an… adverse reaction. You’ve said how he craves meat.”

Ramsay nods again. “So I did. Really well done, Leanflaed, I’m sure King Alfred will be delighted to try this. And you, chefling—what have you been doing?”

Uhtred lays down the knife. “Working on my _abysmal_ chopping skills, L—Chef.”

Ramsay picks up a recently diced potato. “Not bad,” he decides. “Not bad, chefling. Clearly, working with Leanflaed has done something for you. I trust you’ve been listening to her explanations on the meat?”

“I have, Chef,” Uhtred says carefully.

Ramsay is either oblivious to Uhtred’s sudden wariness, or doesn’t care. “Well. If you feel confident enough, I’ll put you onto replicating it, then. We slaughtered one too many chickens today, we have leftover breast. Instead of salting it, I’ll let you have a go, yeah?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Right then. Back in a pinch.”

Leanflaed leans over so she’s close to Uhtred’s ear. “You’re excited, don’t try to deny it.”

And it’s true: Uhtred, for his part, is. Of course, the excitement of cooking a chicken doesn’t compare to the excitement he’d felt when first learning to sail _Wind-Viper_ , or his first boar hunt with Earl Ragnar, or even his first kill, but there’s excitement in it all the same. A hunger for life: living in the moment.

The chicken is delivered by one of the servants, and Uhtred goes about preparing it under Leanflaed’s instruction: he salts the skin, oils the pan, readies the flame. As it begins to fry, Ramsay returns.

“That’s it for guidance, Leanflaed,” he says. “The chefling has to learn on his own. I expect it to be fully cooked by the time I return, chefling.”

Leanflaed grimaces in sympathy, but obediently turns away.

Uhtred, for the first time since arriving in Winchester, actually _works_. He concentrates on how the outsides are bubbling, when to flip the chicken to the other side and when to flip it back. He seasons it—this time with what he thinks is saffron, since Ramsay mentioned it earlier—and lets the chicken sort of sit in it as it fries, thinking it might _embolden taste_. The oil in the pan snaps and pops, stinging as it makes contact with his skin, but Uhtred hardly notices. The pan itself seems hot enough, but when Uhtred cuts into the chicken, it’s not actually cooked through—the innards are still a dark pink.

Ramsay must have a sixth sense about when people are struggling, because just then he storms over to the pan, reaching in and grabbing the chicken with his bare hands. Uhtred watches in a mixture of amazement and horror as Ramsay pulls the chicken up to eye-level. Then, the dreaded words come. 

"IT'S FUCKING RAW!" 

Ramsay holds it with two fingers and flaps it in Uhtred's face. He leans back into the counter, away from its flailing, deadened limbs. "Fucking _look_ at it, you useless chefling! It's so raw I can still hear it _clucking!"_

Uhtred blinks at him, utterly speechless. It would be a stretch to say that Earl Ragnar coddled him, to be sure, but he’d never, in all his life, been spoken to with such derision. 

Ramsay seems only spurred on by his silence. “I mean for fuck’s sake, a goddamn fucking stoat with no face could tell that isn’t cooked!”

Uhtred stares, and inclines his chin.

His lower back hits the nearest cabinet, offsetting his balance with the haste that Ramsay puts them nose to nose. “WHEN I AM SPEAKING YOU SAY “YES, CHEF” OR “NO, CHEF”!” He roars. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

Uhtred has never been one to shy away from a challenge, and it’s instinct that spurs him on now: he cranes an arm behind his back, grabs the nearest thing he can reach, and thrusts it outwards.

Ramsay jumps backwards away from the blade. Uhtred brandishes it in front of himself, regaining his stance properly. 

Ramsay’s shock has quickly faded away, and leaves nothing but wrath in its wake. Ramsay’s features twist inhumanely, something otherworldly and monstrous possessing his expression. “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!” He roars. He grabs the pan that the chicken was in, hot handle and all, and brandishes it high. “HOW FUCKING _DARE_ YOU PULL A WEAPON ON ME IN MY OWN BLOODY KITCHEN? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU MAKE A MOCKERY OF MY WHOLE FUCKING KITCHEN STAFF? YOU FUCKING STOAT, YOU ABSOLUTE BLOODY FUCK, GET OUT! **_GET OUT!”_ **

The pan is swung; Uhtred ducks; it clatters against the countertop, and Uhtred, though never a coward, knows when to retreat, and so he hustles himself through the entrance and far from the kitchen where he can still hear Ramsay roaring and the clatter of things being thrown, and he thinks that maybe Egbert crying wasn’t something to be ashamed of, after all.

This is certainly not the first time that Ramsay has been subject to one of his apprentices losing their temper, but Uhtred, as most things are when it comes to him, is different. To date, none of the other kitchen staff have pulled a knife on him in a fit of rage, and unfortunately Ramsay cannot control his own temper. After throwing Uhtred out of his kitchen altogether, he puts an unamused Jean-Phillipe in charge and storms out.

A servant passing by begins to greet him, but upon seeing the rage contorting Ramsay’s face, ducks out of the way and scurries off. Ramsay does not even hear him, his eyes trained on the doors to the courtroom. 

“Open the fucking doors!” he bellows. “I have to speak to Alfred! _Now_ , you spineless arseholes!”

The guards look at each other apprehensively, not daring to question Ramsay’s use of Alfred’s name. Nobody in the palace wishes to be on Ramsay’s bad side, so they do as they are asked at once. Ramsay does not let them open the doors fully, for he reaches them first and flings them open the rest of the way. Alfred is seated on his throne. To his credit, he only looks mildly disturbed by Ramsay’s intrusion, and his voice remains serene as he speaks.

“Lord Ramsay. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Already at the end of his tether, Alfred’s calmness threatens to push Ramsay over the edge. “Uhtred,” he spits. “I cannot have him in my kitchen any longer.”

Alfred frowns a little. “What happened, Ramsay?”

“That arse,” Ramsay begins, “pulled a fucking knife on me today. None of my other apprentices have ever dared to behave like that before!”

Alfred disregards the colourful language, but only because it is from Ramsay. “What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying_ that I cannot teach Uhtred any longer,” Ramsay says. He does not know whether to be more infuriated at what Uhtred did, or at Alfred’s lack of a reaction. Does the bastard not care?

“Yes, you can.”

Apparently not, then.

Ramsay does not say anything at first. He is never normally lost for words, but the anger and shock coursing through him has effectively silenced the formidable chef. _Yes, he can?_ What on God’s green fucking earth-

“You can, and you will,” Alfred continues, seemingly oblivious to the look of fury painting Ramsay’s face. “That is a command and you will obey it.”

Ramsay glares at him. “Yes, Lord,” he snaps. “But I would not expect any hearty meals for a while if I were you.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Explain yourself, Ramsay.”

“Uhtred will help to prepare your meals from now on,” Ramsay lies. He has no intention of letting Uhtred help out for the next ten years at the very least. “And because the chefling is so inexperienced, it will have to be gruel, I’m afraid. Sorry about that, Lord.”

The smirk on his face undermines his apology somewhat, but Alfred ignores it. “Very well. You may be on your way.”

As Ramsay turns to leave, he thinks for a moment that he can see a faint smile ghosting the king's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo, ramsay and uhtred have blown up at each other again - expected, but maybe you weren't expecting *that* to happen hehehe
> 
> a history of soap   
>  some info on   
>  the spice trade 
> 
> please leave a comment on ur thoughts and have a good one :3
> 
> amy: [tumblr](https://osferth.tumblr.com/)  
> ro:[tumblr](https://f-ro-g.tumblr.com/) [tiktok](https://www.tiktok.com/@thelostcolony)


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